


Cat Burglar

by andrhars



Series: Grimalkin [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Let's see how badly I can mangle the canon, M/M, Misunderstandings aplenty, OC is a Thief
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-28 20:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17189843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrhars/pseuds/andrhars
Summary: Grimalkin is a thief, and pretty good at it. A burglar? Not so much.Stranded in Ferelden after his plan of robbing the Conclave goes awry, he makes two mistakes.1: He tries to steal from the Inquisition. 2: He tries to steal from the Herald of Andraste.Inevitably, he gets caught. Can he worm his way out of the sticky situation before it's too late?





	1. Don't Steal from the Inquisition!

Plans went wrong.

It happened every now and then, and while an argument could be made that a  _good_  plan should have enough fall-backs and alternatives that the failure of the primary route isn't the end of the world, there are just some things that  _cannot_  be accounted for.

The Conclave exploding was one of those things. Sure, a little fire and ice was to be expected (there were mages there, after all), but an unholy conflagration of green fire that not only shattered any hope of establishing peace between the mages and Templars, but also obliterated the senior Chantry hierarchy, including Divine Justinia, throwing most of Thedas into chaos?

Nah, there was no anticipating that.

And that was before even getting into the giant hole torn in the sky above the remains of what had once been the Temple of Sacred Ashes, or the smaller rifts that kept opening up all over the place, spewing out all manners of demons and other horrors.

And still, the mages and Templars kept fighting each other, treating the demons as little more than annoyances getting in the way of their true goal...if there even was one. Based on the roving bands of mages and Templars who kept harassing innocents in the countryside and their utter lack of direction, that was very likely the case. Not unexpected, seeing as a great number of  _their_  respective leaders had been killed in the Conclave explosion as well.

Problem was, they were getting in the way now.

A lot.

In this case, a roadblock made up of at least eight heavily armoured Templars, defending a wood bridge. Not only was it a strategic location, being the only way across the river, but a profitable one as well, if the way they kept shaking down the poor farmers trying to cross it was anything to judge by.

Sickening.

Kin sighed, mentally crossing off yet another possible route out of the woodland hell that was the Hinterlands. That was the fifth out of six possible roads he could take northwards, to a harbour where he could get passage on a boat back to the Free Marches, that was blocked off. His last option was a narrow trail that would take him west for a time, bringing him uncomfortably close to Haven, a place he'd rather not get anywhere near.

He could go cross-country, but he wasn't equipped for that sort of journey, nor did he know what sort of devilry he'd encounter along the way. A rift could open up right in front of him, and he'd run and get himself lost as fuck somewhere and end up starving to death, his bones to be found years later as a testament and proof that city elves weren't suited for the great wilderness.

So, it was the road towards Haven for now, but he'd find a fork soon enough that would lead north.

Or so he hoped.

His previous plan hadn't gone so well either, but that was, as previously mentioned, because the Conclave had fucking  _exploded_. Otherwise, his intent to go steal everything that wasn't nailed down from the Chantry, mages, and Templars had been bloody perfect. No one would pay attention to one extra elf servant running around the place, not with such high tensions between the mages and Templars. They would be too busy watching each other, and the Chantry too occupied with making sure neither side escalated the conflict before the peace talks could begin.

Kin would have walked away a rich, rich man.

And then, the explosion.

He couldn't help but feel bitter about it. He'd come south from the Free Marches for this, and now his way home was being blocked, and he ran the very real risk of getting his head bitten off by a random demon appearing out of nowhere.

He waited until the Templars on the bridge were busy looking the other way before slipping out from his hiding spot in the bushes and heading back the way he'd come. He'd have to get back to the main road leading from Redcliffe, and then take a sharp right and head up into the hills, and then keep walking until he found a split in the road.

Knowing his luck, Kin wouldn't find one until after reaching the snow again, meaning he was in for a miserable slog.

"This is what I get for coming home," he muttered under his breath. "At least there's no Darkspawn this time around."

* * *

It took him a day or so to reach the crossroads near the Redcliffe gates. He'd been forced to sleep rough, as he did not dare to walk the Hinterland woods on his own after dark. Sleeping in a tree had  _not_  done wonders for his back, but it had kept him safe from wandering predators and Maker knew what else roamed among the trees in the night.

The number of refugees had multiplied in his absence. Poor souls forced to flee their homes and farms to avoid getting caught up in the fighting between the mages and Templars, or worse, the demons. Some had managed to pack some of their belongings on carts, while others had been forced to flee with little more than the clothes on their backs. Some tried approaching Kin, begging for help, but he had nothing to spare if he wanted to stay alive himself.

Some looked ready to rob him, even, but Kin found that pushing his coat a little to the side, revealing the hand-axe hanging on his belt loop, was discouraging enough for them to back down, spitting at his feet before lumbering off. Kin knew he didn't look very formidable, but he also knew the farmers weren't desperate enough to risk a maiming over trifles, not even from a knife ear.

He was briefly considering taking a walk through the refugee camp, which had started to grow around the crossroads, in order to find supplies for his hike, but a commotion near the very middle of the road made him pause. A banner had been planted in the ground, for all to see. The symbol gave him pause. A burning eye with a sword at its back.

He had never seen it before. He knew the Seekers of Truth, some sort of organisation similar to the Templars, used the burning eye as their symbol, but the sword was an addition he wasn't sure what meant. Maybe they'd gone militant and rogue, just like the Templars? That's what they needed,  _another_  group of religious lunatics running around lighting the countryside on fire, harassing the common folk.

Once Kin got on a boat heading north, he'd never come back this way again. Ferelden was just a miserable place to live, no matter what was going on.

It had been for him, at least.

"Do you think it's true? Are they really going to bring peace?"

The hopeful, but dubious tone of one of the refugees drew his attention, and Kin realised a sign had been put up next to the banner, the letters hastily carved into the wood.

"Tell us what it says!" someone near the back of the crowd shouted. "Some of us can't read, you know!"

One helpful man at the very front of the crowd began to read it aloud for everyone else, in a very halting, stuttered manner with liberal use of his finger along the letters. Kin listened as well, at first curious about the new threat, and then doubtful.

So, this was the Inquisition he'd heard about. He'd been half right, then, as the group had been founded on the ashes of the Conclave by a bunch of Chantry fanatics who'd gathered around some individual calling themselves the Herald of Andraste. The rumours had found their way down to Redcliffe long before the group itself, and Kin hadn't taken them seriously, but it would seem the Inquisition was finally revealing itself to Thedas officially.

In Redcliffe.

Which meant it was high time to get the fuck out of Ferelden entirely, because Kin knew exactly what this group would bring with them. Purges, all in the name of rooting out the enemies of the Chantry and The Maker.

And they would start with the elves. They always did. It had happened in Denerim more times than Kin could count, and he wasn't about to stick around to get caught up in it.

"Restore peace".

He'd believe it when he saw it.

From far, far away.

Antiva, maybe, or Rivain. He hadn't pissed off anyone in those places yet—it was worth a try, at least.

He checked his pack and found the meagre rations within acceptable for now—he was bound to encounter someone along the way he could barter with. And if not...well, he had other ways of acquiring what he needed.

* * *

Or so he thought. A few days later, his pack was empty save for a few precious baubles he'd managed to lift off a fat merchant who'd clearly had no need of them. Pity that he didn't have any food on his cart, but Kin had assumed any refugees he'd met would be willing to trade.

Turns out food was a lot more precious to them than gold.

Imagine that.

It wouldn't have been difficult, lifting a few items from their packs (presumably stuffed with everything they could get from their pantry before being forced on the run), but...there'd been children. And that had stayed his hand. Kin had few principles but stealing from kids was one of those things he would never do. He knew all too much about the pain of going hungry as a child to put another through it.

He cursed his bleeding heart, shivering as he trudged along the snowy path, confidence in his plan of following the road until he hit a fork that went northwards quickly fading as the sun began to set, causing the snow to turn a bright magenta that almost hurt his sensitive eyes to look at. He'd have to find shelter soon or run the risk of freezing to death in the night.

In the distance, just above the mountain peaks, he could see the sickly green tendrils of the hole in the sky above Haven, reminding him that he was getting uncomfortably close to the epicentre of it all. If he didn't find a road leading north within the next day, he'd have to turn back and come up with a different plan. Perhaps he could find a way around the Templar barricades, or sneak through the mages' territory without setting off one of their diabolical traps.

The wind seemed to blow right through his clothes, setting his teeth chattering, but it also brought with it the scent of a campfire...and cooking meat. His stomach made a needy sound at the smell, his mouth following up by filling with saliva. It wasn't that long since he'd finished the rations, but they were hardly filling.

"No harm in taking a closer look," he told himself, following the scent. If they were hostile, he'd simply leave.

Or pilfer whatever food and valuables they had, and  _then_  leave.

Yeah, that was a good plan.

Doubt filled him when he spotted the banners raised at the camp entrance, however. The burning eye with a sword again, and lightly armoured soldiers. Said armour seemed a bit hodgepodge, clearly assembled from several different sets and styles based on whatever fit, with orange-coloured bits of clothing underneath to provide some semblance of uniformity.

The Inquisition wasn't as rich as Kin had assumed, then. At least not yet. Once the movement gained traction (and how could they not, with the promises they made?) among the populace, the investors would come, those who showed no compunction in funding whatever military group that would rise to the top, on the condition that  _they_  rose with them.

Unless they were destroyed by the Chantry, Templars, or mages before they could actually  _do_  anything, that is. The Chantry, in particular, would probably want to see this heretical Herald of Andraste burned at the stake sooner rather than later, and the only thing stopping them from making that happen was their loss of the Templar Order. Once they'd recovered and managed to gather some sort of army, the Inquisition would be finished.

And wouldn't it be sad to see whatever valuables they'd gathered disappear into the deep,  _deep_  pockets of the Chantry leadership? Kin could simply not abide such a thing, so he'd better grab some before it was too late.

For safekeeping.

The Inquisition ought to be  _thanking_  him, really.

He doubted they'd see it that way, though, so he'd better do it quickly and quietly. Maybe he'd leave a note, just to let them know it wouldn't be for naught.

The Inquisition had made their camp in a small clearing a little way from the road, the trees around them providing them with shelter from the wind as well as keeping them out of sight for those unwilling to risk leaving the relative safety of the road.

Kin had no problems with that...though he could have done without the metric ton of snow that filled his boots as he made his way around the perimeter of the camp, careful not to be spotted by the guards that patrolled around it. They didn't seem too willing to head deeper into the woods, luckily, so Kin's hiding spot in a small cluster of trees that also happened to give him a perfect view of the camp wasn't likely to be discovered any time soon.

There were five tents, all clustered around the campfire, which burned brightly and merrily, still filling the air around the camp with the delicious smell of cooking food. He wasn't close enough to spot too many details about the camp's occupants, but there was definitely a dwarf among them, and a woman dressed in elaborate armour that reminded Kin of the Templars'. Definitely not someone to mess with. Luckily, the tent she slept in wasn't the closest one to Kin's hiding spot.

He couldn't risk going through all the tents—time would be of the essence—so he would go for the tent closest to him. He would cut a hole in the back wall, have a quick look, and let himself in if the danger wasn't too bad. He'd grab whatever he could—food, valuables, maybe even a weapon if it looked expensive enough to sell, and be on his way before anyone realised it'd gotten a bit draft-y.

Backup plan in case of discovery? Run like hell. He'd lose them among the trees and head back to Redcliffe immediately. He'd blend in with the refugees if they followed him.

Good enough, he decided, and sat back against the tree, waiting for darkness, trying not to mind too much the snow that was melting and running down his back and into his trousers.

* * *

The Inquisition went to bed early, interestingly enough. There was no drinking around the campfire late into the night, or swapping stories, or singing. They just ate their supper, spoke a little amongst themselves, and retreated to their tents for the night, leaving a few guards to watch the perimeter. Either they were planning to have an early day tomorrow, or they were really tired.

Either way, it suited Kin just fine. It let him get on with his work sooner than he'd anticipated. He waited an hour or so after the lights in his target tent had gone out, allowing the occupants to fall asleep properly, before making his move, creeping through the snow and quickly reaching the tent wall. The guards made their rounds, but they did so slowly, and at very regular, predictable intervals. Their lines of sight were kept at eye-height, spying outwards. They didn't even think to look down and see if there were unfamiliar tracks in the snow.

Whoever was in charge of security in the Inquisition was either not very good at their job, or had picked the wrong soldiers for the job.

Then again, they might not have the luxury of choice just yet.

It didn't matter, though, because Kin just needed them out of the way. He drew his dagger from his belt, the weight of it a comfort, even after all these years, and quickly made a cut into the rough canvas of the tent, no more than a few inches. Enough to let him peek inside the darkened interior. No movement that he could see, and all he could hear was the steady, even breaths of sleep. Only one cot, meaning only one occupant. There was a heavy-looking chest in the corner and several rough-spun sacks.

Food, likely.

Hopefully.

Satisfied with the recon, Kin pulled up the mask that covered the lower half of his face, and cut a bigger hole in the tent wall, just enough for his slight frame to slip through. Pausing in a crouch, he stayed still for a moment, listening to the breathing of the person on the cot, making sure his entry hadn't disturbed their sleep. They were absolutely gone, to his relief.

Burglary really wasn't his speciality. Pickpocketing was second nature but breaking and entering was something he tried to avoid whenever possible.

Releasing his breath, he went to work. He untied the rope holding one of the sacks closed, and nearly sighed when all it contained was hardtack—a type of biscuit that required the teeth of a bear to actually eat. The next sack was a little better, filled with potatoes, but most of them looked a little mouldy and slimy.

The third sack contained some sort of grain, which was of no use to him. The fourth, however, was exactly what he was looking for: Apples, and lots of them. He took as many as he dared and put them in his pack. He grabbed a few biscuits as well, just to have something a little more substantial (even if they felt like rocks in his stomach).

That was food taken care of, for now. Next up was the chest, which was kept closed with a heavy-looking lock.

No problem, Kin thought, retrieving his set of lockpicks from his pack. He'd learned to open strongboxes at the age of eight—at this point there were very few non-magical locks he couldn't open with enough time and patience.

Just as he was about to get to work, however, the occupant on the cot shifted, groaning in their sleep. Kin froze, gaze darting to the blanket-covered form, swallowing when he noticed the staff leaning against the wall next to the cot.

A mage.

He'd snuck into a bloody mage's tent.

Just his luck.

At least they hadn't woken up. They'd simply turned over in their sleep, arm resting gently on the edge of the cot and...there was something shiny. A pack had been wedged into the space between the cot and the canvas, and within, a valuable-looking necklace was shone with the reflected light of...well, nothing, really.

Magical artefact, then.

Possibly dangerous, but potentially very valuable to the right buyer.

Had Kin been as smart as he liked to think he was, he would have left the tent at that moment, satisfied with the food. Temptation, however, had a firm grip on his heart, and he simply could not leave such a shiny trinket behind. The mage would simply have to enchant something else.

Getting it wasn't as trivial as he would have liked, but nothing worth doing was easy, as someone had once told him.

Difficulty wasn't the issue—awkwardness was.

The straps of the pack were wound around the legs of the cot, and there was no way to pull the pack closer. Inwardly cursing his luck, Kin was forced into halfway-straddling the cot and its occupant, bringing him uncomfortably close his burglary target.

Who was an elf, he noted, spotting a pointed ear sticking out of the nest of blankets they'd made for themselves, shivering despite the relative warmth of the tent interior.

"Sorry, friend," he whispered. "But I need this more than you do."

The pack was tied closed, and the knot looked too complicated to undo easily, so he'd have to reach forward and cut it open with his dagger—

"Hm?"

Kin's eyes widened, his head seemingly turning on its own to bring his gaze to meet the elven mage's...which were open, a vivid shade of green, and staring at him with fear and panic.

Kin realised what this must have looked like, and opened his mouth:

"Look, there is a very good explan—"

That was as far as he got before an invisible force slammed into him, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending him crashing through the canvas of the tent and into the camp proper.

And then all hell broke loose.

There was a lot of shouting, and then a lot of hands that Kin did his best to fight off, head still spinning from the impromptu trip through the air. It was only when he felt an extreme chill around his legs and hips that he knew he was screwed most thoroughly as his lower body was encased in ice, going limp as he was surrounded by a group of  _very_ angry-looking Inquisition people, most of whom had been roused from their sleep most rudely.

This was all on the elf mage, Kin decided. If they'd only remained asleep, this could have been avoided.

I suppose my luck had to run out at some point, he thought. Then again, that had probably happened the moment the Conclave exploded.

"Assassin!" a stern voice declared as the woman who'd been wearing the elaborate armour stepped up to him dressed in a simple tabard and trousers, an extremely sharp sword in her hand. Even without her armour she seemed formidable, her hazel eyes shining with righteous fury. "How did you get past our defences?!" she demanded.

Kin, his mouth getting the better of him, as it was wont to do, replied, "What defences? A pair of guards who can't be bothered to look  _down_  isn't exactly something I'd put my trust in."

Only a moment later did it occur to him to refute the assassin accusation, by which time it was too late if the look of absolute disgust on the warrior's face was anything to judge by. It certainly promised a deep misery in the near future for the guards who'd missed Kin's entry.

"Who do you work for?" she asked then, wordlessly holding out her hand as one of the soldiers handed her Kin's dagger. One part of him was relieved to see it had survived, the other deeply resentful of someone else getting their grubby hands all over it. "The Chantry? The Templars? The mages?"

Kin was powerless to stop a pair of strong (and above all  _big_ ) hands wrenched his arms behind his back, tying them together, before removing his axe as well, the owner of said hands giving a quiet, impressed whistle.

"Custom work, very nice," a deep voice said. "Must've set you back a bit."

In the corner of his vision, Kin could make out the tip of what seemed to be a very impressive horn. His stomach sank a little at the realisation that the Inquisition apparently hired Qunari as well. He hadn't met many of the horned fanatics, but he knew they were trouble. Just how the Inquisition managed to get this one to follow a supposed herald of a prophet his kind didn't even believe in, he had no idea. Did the Qunari even  _have_  gods? Or was The Qun all they needed in that regard?

He was getting side-tracked, and grimaced. "I suppose you could say I'm self-employed? And I'm not an assassin, just a thief!"

"A likely story, given the position you were found in," the warrior said, looking to a spot somewhere behind and to the right of Kin. "Varric, how is he?"

"Kid's a little shook up, but otherwise fine," yet another male voice spoke as the dwarf Kin had spotted earlier that day came into view, giving the supposed assassin a suspicious glare. It was odd, seeing a dwarf without a beard. In Kin's experience, most dwarves would rather die than be seen with a naked face. "Woke up just in time to avoid a gutting."

"I wasn't going to gu—eugh, look, I'm not an assassin!" Kin tried again. "I was just reaching for his pack, which I had to cut open, which was why my knife was out, but he woke up and...well, his reaction was understandable...and I'm not even close to making a good case for myself, am I?" There wasn't any sympathy to be found in the eyes boring into him, that was for certain.

"Not so much, no," the dwarf—Varric, was it?—said, flashing Kin a crooked grin that he had trouble figuring out the emotion of. "Can't really make a good case for yourself when you're caught in the act, you know?  _Especially_  when the Herald of Andraste is involved."

Kin paused for a moment as his mind tried to catch up with that little nugget of information. "The what of who?" he asked, intelligently.

The warrior made a disgusted sound. "Don't play dumb," she warned him. "You know exactly whose tent you were in, and whose throat you were about to cut."

Had he pissed off some deity, to the point that they were just actively fucking with him at this point? Kin didn't much care for theology, but he was willing to apologise to every mythical being that had ever been thought of if it would break this ridiculous streak of bad luck.

The Herald?

_The_  Herald?!

He'd not only snuck into the Herald's tent, but  _also_  tried to steal his stuff?! Kin had made mistakes in the past— _many_  mistakes—but this was clearly his masterpiece.

"I...I am so sorry," he said feebly. "I had no idea...I thought it was just a random mage's tent. I really was just trying to steal his stuff." He turned his head as far to the right as he managed but could not catch a glimpse of the Herald. "For which I am  _really_  sorry!"

"Enough lies," the warrior said, stepping forward and raising her blade. "Speak the truth, assassin, or die where you stand!"

"I'm not even standing!" he cried.

"Ugh, you know what I meant," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"Cassandra, wait!"

She paused, glaring at the speaker. "What is it?"

"I just...Bull, could you remove his mask, please? I'd like to see his face."

"You got it, Boss," the Qunari behind him rumbled as Kin felt surprisingly deft hands undoing the knots holding his mask in place.

There were no surprised gasps as the mask fell away, revealing Kin's face. Why would there be? His face was unremarkable at best, forgettable at worst. Well, not worst. It was a pretty good quality for a thief to have, actually, since it made identifying him much more difficult for his pursuers. Half the time, the people he stole from didn't even register that he was an elf, for all they cared about the people beneath them.

Bastards.

Still, he thanked them for their lack of attentiveness every time he managed to slip into a crowd and disappear for a while.

His gaze was on the ground as the Herald's boots stepped in front of him. Was he supposed to look up, or keep averting his gaze? Whatever would escalate the situation, he wanted to do the opposite of.

"Please look at me," came the Herald's soft request, and try as he might, Kin couldn't resist. If he refused to comply, they'd probably beat or kill him for disrespecting the Herald. If he  _did_  comply, they might beat or kill him for daring to even  _look_  at his betters.

The first thing Kin noticed was, again, the peculiar shade of green of the Herald's eyes. Almost glowing, but not in the light-catching way that gave elves their keen sight in the dark. The second thing he noticed were the delicate tree branches tattooed on his face, stretching from the bridge of his nose to cover most of his forehead.

Dalish, then. What were those tattoos called again?

Wait, Dalish?

Elvish?!

Since when did Chantry types put  _elves_ in leadership positions? That made no sense!

"Your accent," the Herald continued, oblivious to Kin having his worldview flipped upside-down. "It's Fereldan, isn't it?"

Defensive, Kin glared up at him.

"Why do you care? Need somewhere to send my ashes?"

The Herald blinked, taken aback by the accusation.

"We'd...certainly try to return your remains to your family, if that is what you are asking," he said haltingly, clutching his staff a little tighter.

Any moment now, that thing would come to life and burn Kin to cinders, or electrocute him, or crush him with rocks, or something equally horrible.

Mages could be so cruel. And creative.

Kin chuckled bitterly at that. "Good luck finding them—I never did."

"I'm...sorry," the Herald said, sounding genuine. It caught Kin off-guard for the umpteenth time that night. What kind of madman  _apologised_  to his bloody assas—er, burglar?! This wasn't really how his execution was supposed to go.

The Herald didn't even seem annoyed or upset by the perceived assassination attempt, nor by Kin's harsh words. If anything, he looked curious, taking in every detail about Kin's face, his clothes, even casting a glance at his dagger and axe. When his brows furrowed, it caused his tattoos to crinkle in an interesting way.

What  _were_  those damn tattoos called?  _Val_ -something.

Argh, the Dalish tongue was so confusing and hard to pronounce!

"This is a waste of time," the warrior—Cassandra, right?—broke in, looking at the Herald with an expectant look. "What do we do with the assassin?"

"I'm not an assassin!"

"Definitely not a good one," the Qunari—Bull—chuckled behind him.

"I'm a thief!" Kin protested, quite tired of the accusation.

"Not a good thief either, then," Bull said, coming to Kin's side and crouching down. Maker's breath, the bastard was huge! Even on his knees, back bent, did their eyes line up. Well,  _eye_  in Bull's case, as his left one was covered by an eyepatch. A smug grin was on his lips, a scar cutting across the left side of his mouth. "Isn't  _not_  getting caught pretty much priority one, in either case?"

"Well, yeah, but..." Kin trailed off. He didn't really have any strong arguments against that. He  _would_  rather avoid being seen if he could help it, and was definitely the first rule on his list...that is, if he  _had_  such a list.

It was certainly his primary goal, and he always succeeded.

Mostly.

Sometimes.

All right, it was probably about fifty-fifty, if he was completely honest; but that was because burglary wasn't his specialty! Kin's speciality was pickpocketing, and he tried to avoid having to break into places to acquire whatever he had his eyes on, and even then, he only went after the juiciest targets.

Like an Inquisition camp.

Dumbest decision he'd ever made.

"We could let him go?" the Herald suggested, to the general befuddlement of the camp. The only people not to react with some variation of horror were Varric, who simply shook his head with a grin, and Bull, who laughed.

Cassandra, however, looked aghast. "Let him go?! He's already tried to kill you once; do you want to give him a second chance?!"

"I didn't—"

"Shut up!"

The Herald didn't back down, despite Cassandra's overbearing outrage. "It's like Bull said, isn't it?" he said, shrugging. "Even if he is an assassin, he's obviously not a very good one."

"What kind of assassin straddles their target, anyway?" Bull murmured, causing Kin to hiss with annoyance.

"Besides, we've already spilled enough blood for today," the Herald continued. "I'd rather avoid taking any more lives."

Varric made a doubtful noise.

"I'm not exactly a big proponent of lopping the heads off of everyone we meet, Greenie, but just letting someone who not fifteen minutes ago had a knife to your throat go isn't exactly a good idea—"

"I didn't have the knife to his throat!" Kin protested. "It was just, you know...above it..."

Varric gave him a very unimpressed look. "Uh-huh," the dwarf said. "Coincidence, was it?"

"Well..."

"Out of the question," Cassandra said with some finality, the sort that told Kin that his fate was quite sealed. "We are not letting the assassin go—"

"Cassandra," the Herald began.

"—but we are not killing him either," she continued, speaking over him. "Whether his incompetence is an act or not—"

"A damn good act," Bull said.

"— _an act or not_ , we need to find out who he's working for!" She gave Kin a look one usually reserved for whatever unpleasant thing had just been stepped in. "I say we take him back to Haven for interrogation;  _then_  we will find out who he is."

"You're gonna give 'em to Nightingale?" Varric asked, wincing before giving Kin a sympathetic look. "Well, kid, it was nice to meet you."

The Herald's look of discomfort at the idea spelled nothing but doom for Kin. Whoever this Nightingale was, they were definitely bad news. Probably chief torturer or something in the Inquisition's dungeons. It made sense to Kin.  _Inquisition_  was hardly the name of an organisation averse to pulling out the thumbscrews in order to get what they want, even when they claimed to be a force for good.

"You don't have to do that, really," Kin said, feeling the sweat breaking out on his forehead despite the ice encasing his lower half, attempting to give them a cheerful smile, though it probably appeared more manic than pleasant. "You want answers? I'll give you answers! I'll tell you whatever you want! You want to know where I'm from? It's Ferelden! Denerim, to be exact! I grew up on the streets! The first thing I ever stole was a rotten apple from the back of a merchant's cart when I was five years old and starving!"

He could still remember the mushy texture of the apple itself, and the pair of wiggling worms he'd found inside. He'd eaten those too—probably more nutritious than the apple!

"I managed to steal a loaf of bread a few days after," he continued, babbling. "I outran the watchmen and went back to the chicken coop I slept in, but some of the older kids were waiting for me! They beat me up and took it, and then...then..."

He trailed off as the Herald came a little closer, crouching down so his face was level with Kin's, a sad look in his eyes. "We're not going to hurt you," he said. "I promise. We'll simply be asking you some questions."

"I'll answer anything you want, right here, right now," Kin said, desperate not to end up in a dark dungeon for the rest of his days. "Just...don't lock me up...please?"

He wasn't sure he could take it. Not again.

"That depends on your answers at Haven," Cassandra said harshly as she gently, but firmly, guided the Herald away from Kin. "However, you can be assured that we do not mistreat our prisoners or cause them undue suffering."

Kin fought the urge to point out that the name  _Inquisition_  didn't exactly bring pleasant connotations to mind...as well as ask what she would consider  _due suffering_  to be. Sighing, he lowered his head, knowing he wouldn't be able to talk his way out of this.

"Fine," he muttered, trying to look as cowed as possible.

With luck, he'd be manacled. He could work with that. Picking locks was something he could do in his sleep!

* * *

Unfortunately, Kin and luck weren't on speaking terms the following morning, having spent the night hogtied next to the campfire, no fewer than three guards watching him at all times. There  _were_  manacles after breaking camp, but there were always no less than two sets of eyes on him at any one time.

Well, one and a half whenever Bull was watching him.

Either way, Kin never found a moment to make use of his lockpick, and it was with an increasingly heavy heart he realised there would be no chance for him to walk away from this—the Inquisition just wouldn't let him. Cassandra, in particular, seemed to have taken Kin's sneaking into the camp in the first place as a personal insult and had given the guards on duty at the time a severe tongue lashing, for which Kin had tried to apologise for with sad looks.

They had not worked. One guard in particular, the one chosen to carry Kin's weapons, seemed to be of a mind to bury Kin's own axe in his skull, if her scathing glares were any indication.

At least Cassandra, who was apparently a Seeker of Truth—yet another order of religious fanatics—had been truthful about the Inquisition not mistreating their prisoners. So far, at least. They'd even put Kin on a horse, which was led by one of the Inquisition soldiers. More than once he'd considered digging his heels into the poor creature's side in an attempt to escape, but he'd abandoned the thought once he realised that, with his arms shackled together behind his back, he'd have no way of steering or even holding on to the creature as it galloped.

He'd get away, sure, but would just as likely be rewarded with a broken neck if he lost his balance and fell out of the saddle; which, given his general lack of horse-riding experience, was very likely.

As for the Herald, he was being kept away from Kin at all times. Ostensibly, it was because Cassandra did not like the idea of having an assassin so close to his target. A good reason, Kin agreed (though still refuting his assassin status), but probably not the  _entire_  reason. There was something...off about the way she deliberately went out of her way to prevent the Herald from approaching Kin. An attempt to stop the Herald from getting too close to another elf, perhaps? Maybe the Herald was just as much a prisoner to this Inquisition as Kin himself was, and wanted a way out?

Even discarding that thought, it was a pity he wasn't allowed to approach Kin. The Herald didn't seem to harbour any resentment for their abrupt meeting, and it would've been nice to have someone to talk to.

The trip back to Haven would take about three days, according to the scouts, on account of them being forced to take a detour due to an avalanche blocking the main road. That suited Kin fine—it'd give him time to find an alternative means of escape. The big hole in the sky—The Breach—grew ever larger as they came closer and closer to their destination. He couldn't even imagine the horror one would feel standing directly beneath it, at Haven. And these people, the Inquisition, did so willingly.

Madmen, the lot of them!

Sadly, the guards continued keeping a close eye on Kin, and on the morning of the third day, he'd given up the idea of escape. They wouldn't even let him relieve himself in private!

There was a break in the routine, however, as Varric approached him just after their morning meal. Kin braced himself as the dwarf approached, but Varric just smiled pleasantly at him.

"How's it going, kid?" he asked, giving Kin a sympathetic look.

"Oh, I'm fantastic," Kin replied, doing his best to appear relaxed as opposed to miserable, reclining against the tree to which he'd been chained. They'd given him blankets and kept a small fire burning next to him so he wouldn't freeze in the night, but it hardly made up for the chaining in the first place. He nodded to the dying fire next to him. "Was about to ask one of you to put that out—I'm boiling here."

"I can imagine," Varric said, chuckling. "So, hey, a quick question..."

"Shoot," Kin said. He was frightfully bored, and it was nice to have someone to talk to.

Honestly, he was surprised no one had come to ask any questions before now. He'd been remarkably cooperative during his capture—he'd done as he was told at all times and been compliant. If they'd bothered to ask, he'd have answered any questions they might have had...but it seemed they were content to let this Nightingale handle  _that_  portion of his capture.

"You ever been to Kirkwall?" Varric wondered.

Try as he might, Kin couldn't suppress the full-body shudder than ran through him at the mention of that damned city, and it definitely wasn't because of the cold! He could go an eternity without seeing that shithole again, and it would  _still_  be too soon! The smell of Lowtown, with its refineries, tanneries, and slaughterhouses still made unwelcome appearances in his nightmares; and the less said about Darktown, the better. The only good thing he could remember about the place was the kindness shown to him by the elves of the Alienage, but that hadn't been enough to make him  _like_  Kirkwall.

Varric grinned. "I'll take that look of horror as a yes," he said. "Kirkwall  _does_  leave a lasting impression."

"Deep mental scars, more like," Kin said.

"Heh, those too."

"But yes," Kin said with a nod. "I've had the dubious pleasure of spending some time there. Why do you ask?"

"There's something familiar about you," Varric said, crouching next to him in the snow, leaning closer, which prompted Kin to try and lean away, the back of his head thumping into the tree trunk. "Ever been to The Hanged Man?"

It took Kin a moment to recall the name. "The pub in Lowtown? Once or twice..."

A shithole in a shithole, that place, but also ripe for the picking, full of drunken idiots who hadn't noticed Kin sticking his hand into their pockets, relieving them of a few coins or trinkets. A low point in Kin's thieving career, but he'd been desperate and in need of a healer. To make up for it, he'd taken a walk through Hightown some days later, grabbing everything he could from snooty nobles. Most of that loot had gone to the Alienage.

He hadn't outright  _given_  it to the elves there, of course. That'd be too obvious and would probably lead to a purge once the nobles discovered where their stuff had gone. No, Kin had left small caches of the loot here and there, to be stumbled upon every now and then by the elves who lived in the Alienage.

"I knew it," Varric said triumphantly, pointing at Kin. "I saw you making the rounds one night, years back. I was impressed by your technique and was  _this_  close to having you kicked out." He held up his hand, showing the infinitesimal distance between his thumb and forefinger.

"Why didn't you?" Kin asked, wondering what the odds were of their chance meeting in  _this_  place. Impossible, probably.

"Saw you bleeding," Varric replied, face softening a little. "Figured you had your reasons for pilfering what you could. Decided to leave you to it, provided you didn't try stealing from  _me_  or my friends. If nothing else, you probably prevented a few idiots from drinking themselves to death that night."

"I do try," Kin said, grinning cheekily at the dwarf. "And...thanks."

"Don't mention it," the dwarf said, grinning back. "So...what's your name? Greenie's probably  _dying_  to know by now, but Seeker's adamant about keeping you two apart."

Kin hesitated, as he usually did when people asked him this. His real name was unremarkable, which, again, was a good quality in his profession. However, among thieves there was also a requirement to keep up appearances, to follow certain rules of etiquette. And one of those rules was to always use a codename, usually bestowed upon the thief by one's colleagues.

In Kin's case, his colleagues had been utter rotters.

"Grimalkin," he replied, wincing at Varric's nonplussed expression.

"Like a cat?" the dwarf asked incredulously, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.

Kin scowled. The group he'd ran with back in Denerim had thought they were  _so_  funny when giving him that name, claiming he was small, scrawny, light on his feet, and always landed on them when he fell.

Which was sort of true. The first three parts, at least. His spine still gave a small twinge every now and then as a reminder of the times he  _hadn't_.

This was definitely one of those times—figuratively.

"Wasn't my idea," Kin said, staring at his boots. "Everyone else thought it was hilarious. I prefer Kin."

"Noted," Varric said with a nod, as if he would actually bother remembering Kin's name by the time he was handed over to this Nightingale. "My name's Varric, by the way. Varric Tethras."

Now there was a name Kin had actually heard before, if only in passing. A big name in the Dwarven Merchants' Guild, apparently.

"I know," he replied. "Why're you being so nice to me, Varric?"

He wasn't sure how much longer he could take it. Sooner or later, the Inquisition would show its true colours and torture him to death, he was sure of it.

Organisations like theirs always did. One only had to look at the Templars and the mages for confirmation. Both sides claimed to be fighting for good, and some individuals among them probably were (or believed themselves to be), but Kin had seen what they were capable of once they thought themselves in control...or had been cornered. The area around Redcliffe was littered with dead refugees because of them.

The Inquisition claimed to be there to restore order and provide aid to those who had been caught in the middle of the conflict, but Kin had his doubts. The Herald seemed nice enough (and might have been a prisoner as well), as did Varric, but the rest...well, Kin was quite sure he'd never see the light of day again once they arrived at Haven.

"Nice?" Varric asked. "All I've done is ask you questions."

"No one's beaten me yet," Kin pointed out. "Or done...worse things." He shuddered. "I've already told you I'm not an assassin, I've cooperated and done everything you've asked...but you're not about to let me go...unless you've got a key up your sleeve and this is just some clever ruse."

Varric sighed, shaking his head. "Were it up to Greenie, you'd be free to go by now. Unfortunately, Seeker's in charge of security, and she's really not the type to live and let live. At least not without having Nightingale probe a little deeper first."

"So, you  _are_  going to torture me," Kin said, misery creeping into his chest. "You're just leaving it in the hands of a professional. Figures...guess I shouldn't have expected anything else."

"I don't know what you've heard about us, Kin, but we're really not that kind of outfit," Varric said, standing up and brushing the snow off his trousers. "I could tell you not to worry, but you don't really strike me as someone who  _doesn't_  worry, so..."

Kin scoffed, rather than confirming that Varric was right.

"All I  _can_  say is," Varric continued, "trust Greenie. He's a good guy and won't let anything horrible happen to you."

"I'll believe it when I see it," the elf replied.

"And I'll be there to laugh when you do," the dwarf said, winking at Kin before walking away, nodding to Bull in greeting as the (ridiculously huge) Qunari came to fetch Kin.

"Up you get," the horned giant said, pulling Kin to his feet, which had gone numb from sitting on the cold ground for so long. Between this and the Herald's ice magic from the first night, he was definitely going to catch a cold. "You good?" Bull asked after steadying him.

"What do you care?" Kin couldn't help but hiss.

"Oh, I dunno, you're pretty funny when you're confused," Bull said, chuckling when Kin bared his teeth at him in a snarl. "And cute when you're angry," he added.

"Fuck you!"

"Well, if you insist..."

"Eugh!"

Kin made a disgusted sound that would've made Cassandra proud and marched ahead, ignoring Bull's chuckles when he tripped over his own feet, heading for the horse that would be carrying him the rest of the way.

Kin may have been their prisoner, but that didn't mean he had to put up with this bullshit!

Heh, bullshit.

He made a note of that. He just had to find a good moment to throw it in Bull's face.

Along with some  _actual_  shit, for good measure.

Kin's sense of humour had never been very sophisticated.

* * *

The going was painfully slow today, on account of the narrow paths they had to take. It didn't help that no one was willing to talk to him, having been stuck between two Inquisition soldiers today, and nowhere near Varric. The dwarf in question, along with Cassandra and Bull, was riding close to the Herald, deep in discussion about...something. Kin wasn't really able to discern what, but knowing his luck it was how to best kill him and display his remains to the public.

Flaying and displaying the skins of slaves who had displeased them was apparently a favourite of certain Tevinter Magisters, if the horror stories Kin had heard from slaves who'd escaped that vile place were true. He was inclined to believe they were, especially after what happened in Denerim during the Blight.

As far as he knew, the Inquisition had yet to ally themselves with Tevinter, luckily. He could only hope that this Nightingale didn't take any inspiration from that part of Thedas.

Realising his thoughts were spiralling into yet more misery, Kin tried to distract himself with something—anything—less sinister than his own execution. The landscape around him proved mildly helpful for a few minutes. He'd never been this high up in the mountains before, and while the freezing temperatures were horrible, the views of the landscape below were stunning.

...but not stunning enough to keep him entertained for long. Instead, he focused on his captors. Varric was...well, Varric. Light-hearted, with a kind smile that definitely concealed a steel edge. A rogue, through and through.

He didn't dare look too closely at Cassandra after she caught him staring, giving him her most disgusted expression yet, as if he wasn't even worthy of  _looking_  upon her.

Bull's massive horns proved a good distraction for a few minutes as Kin tried to count the number of scratches and other signs of wear and tear on them. That is, until Bull's single eye caught Kin's...and  _winked_!

At least, Kin  _thought_  that Bull winked. It was hard to tell, with the eyepatch. He didn't take the chance, though, focusing, at last, on the Herald.

It was difficult, bordering on impossible, to imagine such a fragile-looking elf being Andraste's Chosen, and supposedly the figurehead of the Inquisition itself. Skinny, even more so than Kin, he looked like a mild breeze would knock him over. His eyes were, as previously noted, large and unusually green, like emeralds, continually scanning and taking in their surroundings. His skin was quite pale, like he didn't spend much time in the sun, which made his facial tattoo stand out even more.

_Vallaslin_! That's what they were called!

Kin had seen quite a few variations over the years; some were very complex, covering the elf's face entirely, while others were simpler and only resembled a few scrawls on the cheeks, for example.

The Herald's was somewhere in between. His  _vallaslin_ resembled tree branches that went from the bridge from his nose to the edge of his hairline. The design itself wasn't too complicated, but it must have taken meticulous work to ensure the lines of the branches didn't run into each other or leak.

Kin remembered the poor hahren of Kirkwall's exasperated attempts at teaching him what the various designs meant as he'd healed Kin's injury. Each design was meant to symbolise the patronage of a specific elvish god from the ancient pantheon...or something like that. He'd tried to pay attention to the old man's explanation, but theology had never been something to grab Kin's attention, and the words had just slid off his mind, refusing to settle.

The Herald's hair was a dirty blonde colour, which he kept long and braided into plaits that held it back from his face.

Quite handsome, really, if one liked the Dalish look.

Kin wasn't sure what to expect when his eyes met the Herald's. The normal thing would have been for the Herald to feel distrustful and wary towards Kin, considering how they'd met. All he did, however, was give Kin a tiny smile and a weak wave of his hand when Cassandra wasn't looking.

Kin's hands were shackled behind his back, so he couldn't return the gesture, so he simply nodded back with a neutral face.

Varric caught the exchange, however, and gave Kin a wink that pretty much said:

"See? He's a good guy, promise!"

And the Herald definitely  _looked_  nice...on the surface. Kin knew what the Dalish were capable of if they felt threatened, however. Not the idiotic stories of savagery humans were so fond of regaling each other with in the taverns after a few ales, of course. The Alienage elves had far more realistic stories to share, and they had left Kin vowing to never piss off the nomadic elves.

It just wasn't a good idea.

So, the Herald could look and act as nice as he wanted. Kin knew that wasn't all there was to the Dalish elf.

Never mind the whole part with him being a mage, which made him a risky acquaintance at best, and downright dangerous at worst.

* * *

If Kin had needed yet another confirmation that his luck had run off to be with someone else, it came in the form of a rift opening right in front of them.

One minute he'd been slouching in his saddle as they rode past a small, frozen lake, trying to find some way of entertaining himself, eyeing his axe and dagger as they bobbed along on the belt of the guard riding ahead of him.

The next, he'd been thrown  _from_  said saddle as his horse reared up in panic at the sudden appearance of a hole in the very fabric of reality, glowing a garish green. He landed on his shoulder, the pain making him cry out.

The guards assigned to him managed to dismount in more dignified fashions before their mounts, too, ran off at the sudden commotion. The first guard was immediately felled by a tall, spindly demon with long, sharp claws that screeched so loud Kin felt like his eardrums would rupture. It didn't have a lower jaw, its mouth seemingly continuing down along its torso, a toothy maw of terror.

The guard fell into the snow, bisected at the waist. The demon turned towards Kin, its multitude of eyes focusing on him.

"Oh, fuck me!" Kin cried out as he scrambled backwards, trying to get away from the thing. He could have  _sworn_  it smiled malevolently as it started approaching him, clawed fingers reaching.

"Die, filth!" the second guard shouted as she appeared from behind Kin, charging at the monster, her face filled with rage. The demon screamed, trying to swipe at her, but the soldier was faster, hacking away at the limbs before they could get her, cutting its right knee and then beheading it swiftly as it collapsed under its own weight.

"Good job!" Kin shouted. "Now unshackle me, so I can help you!"

By running away, that is, he added to himself.

Bandits, Kin could handle. Templars? Well, sometimes. Darkspawn? Depending on the time of day and how much skin-covering clothing he was wearing, absolutely.

Demons? Nope, nuh-uh, no way!

At the speed Kin planned to run, he'd be back in the Hinterlands within a few hours. And he wasn't about to stop, either. He'd rather charge through a Templar barricade than engage the rifts at close range.

However, the Inquisition guard didn't unshackle him. Instead, she pointed her blade threateningly at him, said, "Stay put, or I'll kill you myself!" and headed off to join the others in the melee.

To Kin's credit (in his opinion), he  _did_  stay put.

For about ten seconds, after which he deftly moved his wrist  _just so_  to dislodge the lockpick in his cuff and went to work on his shackles.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked, his heart beating a mile a minute, praying that no other demons happened to glance in his direction and spot him at his most helpless. There was a loud shriek as another monster was killed, and he nearly cursed when the shock of it nearly made him drop the pick. It wasn't a complicated lock, but it was sturdy, and just one wrong move could cause the pick to snap like a dry twig.

He nearly thanked the Maker when he heard a click and felt the sudden lack of pressure around his left wrist as the first shackle opened. With his newly freed arm, it was a simple matter of doing the same with the right. When he was done, he threw the shackles over the nearby cliff for good measure.

Never again.

He made to run, but spotted his weapons in the snow, still attached to the bottom half of the guard first killed by the demon. He hesitated. The axe could be replaced at a cost, but the dagger...

"Shit," he muttered, running over to the dead man, quickly prying his gear from his belt. The weight of the axe in his hand was a comfort, reassuring in a way he couldn't really describe. Holding the dagger again was like greeting an old friend. He would never leave it behind, no matter what.

With his weapons retrieved, Kin decided it was time to run. He had no supplies, but he could improvise. Anything was better than staying here and becoming some horrid demon's lunch, or the Inquisition's plaything.

He briefly surveyed the battlefield and was satisfied to see that the Inquisition were holding their own. At least they seemed competent and could make good on their promise to end the demonic threat and the rifts. He was curious to see if they would, but that was something he intended to watch from afar.  _Very_  afar.

He was about to leave when he noticed the Herald at the edge of the fight...and he was in trouble.

A trio of demons were hounding him, steadily pushing him backwards with a never-ending flurry of attacks that prevented him from launching any counterattacks, the shield he'd conjured up barely keeping them at bay. None of his comrades seemed to notice his predicament, too busy with their own opponents.

Kin could run. This was his chance. If he didn't, he would get captured again, and there was no telling what they would do to him this time, not after escaping from his bonds and rearming himself.

...but he couldn't just turn his back on the Herald, either.

"Damn it!" he snarled as he took off at a run towards the Herald, nearly slipping on the icy surface of the lake. He drew his axe with his right hand and held it backwards, so the hooked point that served as its counterweight faced forwards.

The Herald was too busy fighting two of the demons to notice that the third slipped away and started slinking behind him, ready to tear his throat out with its claws, single eye rolling madly in what served as its socket.

The Herald spotted Kin approaching, and there was an instant during which Kin saw a very complicated expression crossing the other elf's face as his posture shifted to a slightly more defensive one.

"Get down!" Kin yelled as he threw himself forward, flying directly at the demon behind the Herald. It almost looked as surprised as the Herald did when Kin lashed out with his axe's hook, which sank into the demon's flesh and caught on what  _should_  have been a collarbone, but felt more like very firm leather.

Not that it mattered; all Kin needed was an anchoring point, and that would do just fine. He roared as he flew past, letting his momentum pull the axe with him—and taking the demon along for the ride. It yelped in surprise as it was ripped backwards, sliding after him on the ice.

They came to a gradual stop on the ice, Kin's feet scrabbling for purchase as he drew his dagger in his left hand, desperate to end the fight before it really began. The demon reached for the axe in its shoulder, trying to rip it out, but by the time it got a grip it was too late. Kin was on it, sinking his dagger into its eye, stabbing it again and again.

And again.

And again.

Over and over, until it stopped moving, until its body dissolved into sickly, brown smoke that quickly faded.

Kin took a moment to catch his breath, panting hard. "All right," he muttered. "Time to leave."

"Drop your weapons!"

He couldn't contain the litany of curses that came bursting out of his mouth at the sound of Cassandra's bark behind him. He'd been too busy making sure the demon was dead to notice that the Inquisition had him surrounded again, the Seeker in particular looking livid at his escape.

Or attempted escape, anyway.

Bad burglar, escape artist...man, I am slipping, he thought.

Varric seemed to find his frustration amusing, the bastard, outright laughing from behind Cassandra.

"I just saved your damned herald's life!" Kin snarled, unable to find his footing on the ice, ending up in an awkward kneeling position. "Doesn't that prove I'm not an assassin?!"

Cassandra shook her head. "That doesn't prove anything—it could simply be a ruse in order to get close to him again for a second attempt!"

"If I wanted him dead, I'd have taken his head off on my way past!" Kin protested, gesturing with his axe, which he knew Cassandra had discovered to be razor-sharp upon inspecting it a few days before. "Or I'd have just left him to be mauled by the demon!"

"Final warning!" Cassandra thundered, reaching for her blade.

"I'd do as she says, Stabby," Varric urged him from the side. "She's not one for idle threats."

There was a loud boom, not unlike the one he'd heard when the rift had opened, and for a moment he feared that  _another_ one had appeared. However, that was not the case. In fact, that was the sound of a rift  _closing_. He looked up just in time to see the hole in reality disappear, a thin tendril of green magical... _something_  attached to the Herald's left hand quickly disappearing into said hand.

And that was it, the rift was closed, the demons were gone, and it was like nothing had happened at all.

Save for the three dead Inquisition members lying in the snow, which had been dyed red with their blood. The one who'd refused to unshackle Kin was among them, her glassy eyes staring unblinkingly into the cloudy skies above them.

"What are you doing?" the Herald demanded as he approached the group, flexing his hand, which was still glowing weakly before fading completely.

That was...interesting. And horrifying. And Kin wanted nothing to do with it.

"Just making sure Stabby's not about to try slashing your throat again, Greenie," Varric said cheerfully before Cassandra could.

Kin blinked. Stabby?

The Herald sighed, flexing his hand again. Did closing the rifts hurt, somehow?

"Cassandra, I really don't think he's an assassin," the Herald said. "He had a clear shot at killing me, and he didn't take it. He actually saved my life!"

"It's true," Bull said, coming to stand beside the Herald, having kept an eye on his back while he'd closed the rift. "Saw it with my own eye. Pretty good move there, assassin. Pretty sure the Boss wouldn't be alive if you hadn't dragged that thing off."

"I'm not a..." Kin sighed, realising there was no point fighting it since clearly no one was listening to him. "I'm just a thief...and I happen to know my way around a fight."

"Sounds like a skillset we could use in the Inquisition," the Herald said, rubbing his chin in a pensive manner before turning to Cassandra. "What do you think?"

The Seeker gaped at him. "Have you gone mad?!"

"I'm a Dalish mage who's pissed off all of Thedas by accidentally taking the title of Herald of Andraste, claiming I'm going to save the world with the help of a heretical order of warriors founded against the wishes of the Chantry," the Herald said matter-of-factly, grinning all the while. "I am, in fact, quite mad."

"Can't argue against that, Seeker," Varric helpfully pointed out.

"Of all the...ugh, fine, but I will not have him armed until Nightingale has talked to him!" She pointed her sword at Kin again. This seemed to be running theme with her. "Drop your weapons!"

There really as no way out of it this time either. Even if Kin somehow managed to find his footing on the ice and  _somehow_  escape them, he had a feeling Varric would put a bolt in his back, no matter how nice he seemed. Glaring back at the Seeker, Kin dropped his axe and dagger, kicking them towards Varric.

"I'll be expecting those back," he said. "And I'm not joining the Inquisition."

"We'll see, Stabby," Varric replied with another wink, carefully stowing Kin's weapons somewhere on his person.

As the group began to clean up after the fight, retrieving the horses and the bodies of their fallen comrades, Kin found himself a little listless. He wasn't shackled anymore, but he was also unarmed and only carrying the clothes on his back. He could, theoretically, run, and possibly even get away, but he wouldn't stand a chance against the elements up here. All he could do was follow them to Haven and, hopefully, prove his innocence, after which he could walk away.

Hopefully.

A  _lot_  was resting on hope these days.

"Thank you."

He blinked, realising the Herald was standing right in front of him, mere paces away. The Dalish elf was smiling warmly at Kin, and it made him look young...which he definitely was. No more than twenty-five, if even that.

"Er...for what?" Kin asked.

"For saving my life," the Herald said, cocking his head to the side, confused. It was a little cute, if Kin was completely honest. "Truth be told, I really was in trouble, and I didn't expect you to come charging in like that. I'm still getting used to fighting these things—they've a habit of sneaking up on you if you take your eyes off them for even a second."

"Oh...well, you're welcome," Kin replied. "Are you sure you want to be standing this close to me? I could still kill you, even without my weapons."

"You could, but I don't think you will." His eyes really were an odd shade of green, like emeralds with darker speckles concentrated around his irises. "My name is Khaim, of Clan Lavellan." He held out a hand (not the glowing one), and Kin took it after a moment of hesitation, unsure if it was a trick or not.

"Grimalkin," he replied, shaking his hand quickly before letting go. "Kin, for short."

"Varric told me," the Herald—Khaim—said. "But that's more of a codename, right?"

"It is," Kin confirmed. "My real name is...well, none of your business."

Oof, Kin really needed to put a muzzle on himself one of these days. Heretic or not, the Herald was not the sort of person he wanted to piss off. Honestly, he was the type of person Kin didn't even want to know he existed.

To Kin's surprise (he was surprised a lot these days), Khaim laughed.

"You're right," he said. "It really isn't...but I don't think Leliana will agree."

The world seemed to grind to a halt for a moment as the realisation that yet another terrifying turn of events had taken place sank into Kin. If it hadn't been for his conversation with Varric, he would have thought it a coincidence, but if a random dwarf from Kirkwall was suddenly part of the Inquisition and recognised his face after six years...well, Kin didn't stand a chance in hell that it wasn't the  _same_  Leliana.

His luck was still gone, it seemed.

"Geez, Greenie, what did you tell him? That we'd bring out the ol' thumbscrews and racks just for him?" Varric asked, coming up to them. "Hello? Anyone in there?" he said, waving a hand in Kin's blank, unresponsive face.

"I didn't say anything!" the Herald exclaimed, just as confused. "I just said that their real name wasn't any of my business, but that Leliana might not feel the same!"

Varric looked back and forth between them a few times. "Stabby?" he asked.

"This Leliana," Kin said slowly, horrifying memories flying before his mind's eye at a frightful pace. "She wouldn't happen to be Orlesian, have red hair, and a glare that would scare  _demons_  back into the Fade?"

Khaim blinked. "Oh, you've met?"

Varric sighed, pinching the bridge of his considerable nose.

"Stabby, is there anyone in Thedas you  _haven't_  tried to rob?"


	2. The Worst Assassin

Khaim bit his lip as he watched Kin silently follow Cassandra into the Chantry, flanked by two guards. The Seeker took no chances with the thief, immediately hounding him to Leliana the moment they'd arrived at Haven. Khaim had intended to go with them, but he'd been waylaid by the seemingly endless streams of worshippers that awaited his return, all begging for a blessing or just an opportunity to  _touch_  Andraste's chosen.

How he wished they would  _stop_  calling him that. He wasn't Andraste's—or  _anyone's_ —chosen. He was just a Dalish mage who'd wandered into the wrong room at the wrong time and ended up getting blamed for the Conclave explosion. The only thing that had stopped Cassandra from ending him at the crater was the snippet of a conversation between Khaim and Divine Justinia they'd heard...and the glowing Mark on his hand.

Damned thing.

As if sensing his displeasure, there was a sharp crackle and a flash that sent the nearest worshipper stumbling away in fright, begging Khaim's forgiveness for being presumptuous. Khaim tried to assure him he'd done nothing wrong, but he was already gone. The mage sighed. He looked back to Kin, disappointed to find the other elf gone, already inside the Chantry.

"You okay, Greenie?" Varric asked, standing next to him.

Khaim nodded, giving the next worshipper—an elven servant—a smile that probably looked very forced. It was especially strange, being worshipped by his own kind. City elves, in general, made him feel strange and awkward. Khaim had grown up in the Free Marches, travelling with his clan, used to the fresh air and open spaces. The city elves had not, but even when they'd seen the freedom of the wild for themselves, they still preferred the cities, where they were trapped, forced into small hovels, and treated like dirt.

No, worse than dirt.

The Dalish way of life wasn't always easy—sometimes it was downright gruelling—but he wouldn't trade it away for anything else. Not the sense of wonder and contentment he felt while wandering the forest, felt the gentle caress of the wind on his face...

His stomach lurched, and he forced himself to take a deep breath. Just a little longer, he told himself. Just a little longer, and I'll be back home.

"Kid, what's wrong?" Varric asked, lowering his voice so only Khaim could hear it. He sounded concerned—genuinely so. "Do you need me to get a healer?"

"No, Varric, I'm fine," Khaim said, smiling down at his companion, infinitely grateful for the kind dwarf's friendship. "I'm just worried about Kin."

"Stabby?" Varric said, looking to the Chantry. It seemed not even potential assassins got away from the dwarf's habit of assigning nicknames to everyone. "He'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" Khaim pressed. "Leliana isn't...you know I have nothing against her, but she can be..." he couldn't find a word that fit the complicated feelings he had about the Inquisition's spymaster. Kin had summed her up quite aptly, at least her intimidating nature, but Khaim wasn't  _scared_  of her. At least not entirely.

"Daunting?" Varric suggested.

"Yes!" Khaim exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "That's the word I was looking for!" Realising he was still being watched by a sizeable crowd, he hunched in on himself a little, a blush warming his cheeks. "That," he added to Varric. "Do you think he will be all right?"

"Apparently, they've met before," the dwarf said, putting his hand on Khaim's arm and gently pushing some worshippers aside, determinedly leading the Herald of Andraste further into the Haven camp. "Probably a botched burglary, like this one. She'll probably give him a slap on the wrist and tell him to go away. That'll suit Stabby just fine, I think. He seemed pretty set on running away to...wherever."

"Back to Denerim, do you think?" Khaim asked.

"Maybe?" Varric blinked, spotting Lady Montilyet some ways ahead. She was talking to Commander Cullen and a third man dressed in noble finery. Clicking his tongue, Varric tugged Khaim, predictably, towards the tavern. "Don't want to ruin their day," he offered as an explanation.

Khaim was silently grateful for it—he never quite knew how to speak to Josephine properly or how not to come across as a buffoon. Cullen was...intimidating, but not in the same way as Leliana. So far, the man had been nothing but courteous to Khaim, but there was a distance there that reminded the Herald of some of the supposedly  _good_  shemlen that had come to the clan in the name of peace, only to...well, the less said about it, the better.

"Anyway," Varric continued, "I don't think Denerim's where Stabby makes his home these days. There's a bit of a northern lilt to his accent."

"There is?" Khaim asked. He hadn't really noticed it...but then again, he and Kin hadn't really been able to exchange more than a few words since the thief's disastrous attempt at robbing their camp.

The result of that seemed a bit odd to Khaim—Kin had managed to sneak all the way into his tent without anyone noticing, only making a mistake at the very end, when reaching over Khaim's bed. Even  _if_  the guards on duty that night had been paying too little attention (as Cassandra insisted),  _someone_  in the camp should have noticed  _something_  was off, especially since both Varric and Bull had been present.

Varric liked to hide behind a mask of carelessness and relaxation, but Khaim had a feeling Varric missed  _very_  little of what went on around him. It was certainly true in battle—Khaim had yet to see anything or anyone sneaking up on the dwarf.

As for Bull...well, the Qunari was a spy. He'd outright told Khaim this, in the interest of a friendly working relationship and information on the Breach. Like Varric, Bull played pretend, though he liked being thought of as a dumb brute as opposed to the calculating operative he truly was.

Point was,  _someone_  should have noticed Kin sneaking into their camp, but they hadn't. Since Khaim highly doubted the entire camp had suddenly decided to turn a blind eye to a potential assassin sneaking into their midst, he was left with one option: That Kin wasn't as bungling as he said he was.

And that was another thing that had Khaim confused. Did Kin really believe he was as bad a burglar as he claimed, or was he simply pretending to be?

Until Leliana could report to them with her findings, Khaim had a feeling he'd be turning this over and over in his head for hours.

"You didn't notice?" Varric asked, surprised, bringing Khaim back to the conversation at hand. "Well, I guess it's a bit subtler than yours, but Stabby's  _definitely_  spent some time in the Free Marches. We know for a fact that he's been to Kirkwall, but not for very long, if his story's true."

"Hm..."

"Your clan mostly roams that area too, right?" the dwarf asked as they came to a stop outside the tavern. "I think you mentioned Wycome, at some point?"

"We were close to Wycome once, yes," Khaim said, nodding. "Our Keeper urged us to move on as soon as possible, though. We mostly keep to the northern edge of the Marches."

"Probably smart," Varric said, shaking his head. "Humans get a bit nervous whenever a Dalish clan decides to camp near their cities."

"Afraid we'll steal and eat their babies, most likely," Khaim said, pushing open the door to the tavern. This early in the day, it was mostly empty, and quiet. Varric led the way to his usual table.

"Oh, you've heard that one, too?" the dwarf asked.

"That's the most basic one," Khaim replied. "Some versions are quite...creative."

"Do tell, Greenie," the dwarf said, holding up a pair of fingers to order a pair of ales. "We'll be here for a while."

* * *

Kin had expected to be hauled into the darkest dungeons of the Chantry and chained to the wall, awaiting the judgement and subsequent torture and execution at the hands of the Inquisition. After all, if Leliana—the scariest person he had ever met in his life—was their spymaster, he was not in for a pleasant stay.

However, instead of the basement, he'd been taken into one of the side rooms on the ground floor and ushered into a simple wooden chair in the middle of it. Cassandra, predictably, barked at him to stay put, leaving the two guards to watch him, before disappearing back out the door.

If he was about to be tortured, this was an odd way to begin. They  _could_  have been trying to instil a false sense of security in him, of course. Or maybe they'd just skip the interrogation entirely and chop his head off in this very room.

His head was beginning to spin with the possibilities of what would happen to him, and he knew nothing good would come of it. Instead, he focused on the room itself, and what it contained.

Two guards. One male human, one female dwarf. Both dressed in mismatched armour pieces and orange-dyed cloth to mark them as members of the Inquisition. The man carried a sword and shield, while the dwarf had a pretty nasty-looking hammer strapped to her back. Kin couldn't see them, on account of them standing behind him, but he could hear their breathing and practically feel the tension emanating from the two. They did  _not_  like each other.

Taking a breath, Kin focused on the floor. Rough stone blocks held together with mortar, some rising and others dipping. The masons had not done a very good job, or the Chantry had neglected to pay them properly, resulting in a slightly uneven floor. Bound to trip someone up if they weren't paying attention to where they were stepping. Advantageous in a fight to those aware of the problem, provided they could distract their opponent enough for them to bungle up their footwork.

Good to know, Kin thought, focusing on the walls next.

Bare stone, same shoddy work, though not really of consequence save for acoustics, which was solved by hanging thick tapestries and carpets on them, dampening the sound bouncing off the stone. The tapestries depicted events from the Chant, none of which Kin recognised. In his defence, he hadn't recited any parts of the Chant since he was a child, and generally didn't care to hear it.

A total of four torches hung in sconces on the walls, one in each corner, giving the room light and a little bit of heat, though most of that was leeched away by the cold stone.

No windows, only one door. If he wanted to leave before being given permission to do so, a fight was to be had. Kin was unarmed, and he highly doubted he'd stand a chance against the swordsman, even less if the hammer dwarf backed him up. Turning them against each other could be a possibly avenue, but Kin didn't know enough about them to start anything.

In short, Kin was screwed. He could pick the door lock, possibly, but as long as the soldiers remained in the room with him, he would never get that far.

Ceiling? More stone, more uneven surfaces. No weaknesses to be seen.

Trapped, like the rat I am, he thought, stretching his legs out in the chair, realising it was very wobbly, creaking tiredly whenever he moved. Easy to smash apart, probably. Possible improvised weapons, in the form of wooden clubs with nails. Still not good enough to take on armoured Inquisition soldiers, but definitely something to keep in mind providing Leliana, or Nightingale, or whatever she preferred to be called these days decided that the interrogation required a physical component.

At least his hands weren't restrained. The Herald's promise had been kept there.

His analysis of his situation was interrupted when he heard the door opening behind him, and two more people entered the room, their footsteps not in sync.

"Leave us, please," Cassandra's firm voice spoke. The soldiers left. "This is him," she said next to the silent newcomer.

They approached Kin from behind. His ears twitched at the sound of boots on stone. Their footsteps were light, but certain.

"They say you were found in the Herald of Andraste's tent, trying to kill him," they spoke, and Kin immediately recognised Leliana's voice. "Care to explain?"

Ten years, and that voice still filled him with dread. Her accent was the same as ever, Orlesian to the point of almost sounding like a parody, but there was an edge to her words that had...well, they'd been there back then, as well, but considerably...duller? Softer? Hard to explain even to his own mind, that.

"As I've explained to you people again and again," Kin spoke, trying to keep his voice even and not as wobbly as his insides felt. "I wasn't trying to kill him—I was just trying to steal his food...and a necklace."

"And that required straddling him?" Cassandra asked, scoffing.

"His pack was wedged in an awkward position—and I wasn't  _straddling_  him," Kin insisted, focusing his ire on Cassandra. The Seeker was an intimidating person in her own right, but Kin could handle the anger and hostility that emanated from Cassandra. "I was leaning over his cot, and he woke up at an unfortunate moment! If he hadn't woken up, you'd never have known I was there, save for a few missing apples and a bauble!"

"Apples and a necklace," Leliana's voice spoke again as she marched past Kin and up to the Inquisition banner at the front of the room, her back turned to him. "Not really a big haul, is it?"

"Paltry, true," Kin said, eyeing her back warily. She was dressed in dark leather, her hair covered up by a dark purple hood. She didn't carry any weapons visible on her belt, but she hardly needed those anyway. "You usually keep to small stuff when you're desperate."

"Desperate?" Leliana asked, still not facing him. "Again?"

Kin closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. She definitely knew who he was—had either recognised his codename or his voice.

"Ferelden has never been kind to me."

"Indeed, it has not," Leliana said, finally turning to face him. Her gaze had hardened considerably in the decade since they'd first met. A few worry lines had appeared here and there, but the blue of her eyes had grown icy. Or perhaps Kin was just misremembering. "Which makes me wonder," the spymaster continued, stepping closer, glaring down at him, "what, exactly, you are doing here. As I recall, you vowed to never return."

He found he couldn't meet her gaze. It was too hard, and his stomach threatened to wrench itself inside-out if he tried to.

"And I wasn't going to," he replied, counting the number of cracks in a floor stone. "But then I heard about the Conclave..."

"So, you returned for the Conclave?" Leliana asked. "Why?"

"Do you really have to ask that question?" he said, clicking his tongue. "Isn't it obvious?"

"I want to hear you say it," the Orlesian insisted.

"Why?"

"You know why."

"Leliana, do you  _really_  know this wretch?" Cassandra asked, her voice closer now, just behind and the left of Kin.

"I do, and I would be lying if I said I had hoped to meet him again."

"Likewise," Kin said, chuckling. "Any of you, really."

"Well, there's  _one_  you'll never have to worry about seeing again," Leliana said, tone frosty. "I trust even someone like  _you_  would have heard?"

"I did, and I'm sorry," Kin replied, his apology genuine.

For a moment, he saw  _her_  flash in front of him, all smiles and encouraging words, filling his hand with enough coins for passage on a ship. Her  _vallaslin_  had been beautiful; tree branches, like the Herald's, but simpler, and only framing her eyes. Simple, but distinctive. He could still hear the sounds of the beads woven into her hair knocking into each other when she threw her head back, laughing.

Kin had only known the Hero of Ferelden for an hour or so, but she'd left an impression he'd never managed to rid himself of. Her whole group had, really, in their own ways, but mostly by how they had  _not_  killed him after he'd snuck into their tavern rooms and robbed them. He'd have gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for the Hero, whose hand had snatched his just as it was about to descend into her money pouch.

"If you were truly sorry, you would have honoured her request," Leliana said coldly. "She offered you a way out, a chance for something new, and here you are again. I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky that you'd be the least competent assassin in Thedas, if that was your job."

"I tried!" Kin growled, finally looking her in the eye, frustration boiling over. "You don't think I fucking tried?! I took her money, I left Denerim, got on a boat heading north! Turns out Fereldan refugees weren't worth much in the Marches after half the kingdom tried to escape the Blight, especially beggar elves with no useful skills to their name! I tried to find something, anything, to do with myself, but you know what? If the choice is between stealing or starving, I'll go with stealing every time!"

"There was truly nothing else you could have done to survive?" Leliana said. "Truly?"

"Oh, no, I suppose I could have sold myself on the streets, that was always an option," he snarled. "That's all we're good for, right?!"

"That is not what I meant—"

"Oh, you mean I should have gone to the Dalish?" he suggested. "Provided I could even  _find_  a clan, I'd only be considered an extra, useless mouth for them to feed. I can't hunt, I can't shoot a bow, I can't sew, I can't do  _anything_ that they would consider useful!"

Kin had seen what happened to city elves who tried and failed to join the Dalish. Provided they didn't get killed along the way, they returned in such a defeated state they rarely lasted long on the streets afterwards. More than a few had ended their lives by their own hand, unable to handle the rejection, seeing it as their last chance at something resembling a good life being taken away from them.

He didn't hold a grudge against the Dalish for it, either. He'd spoken with enough of them to know that their nomadic lifestyle was far from one of leisure. If the seasons were rough, hunger was a constant companion, and attacks by bandits, monsters, or just humans who didn't like the idea of elves with a little backbone were frequent. The clans simply didn't have the resources to take in someone who could not contribute in some way, turning them away.

Some a little harsher than others, maybe.

Kin knew enough about himself that, if put in that position, he'd have nothing useful with which to help a Dalish clan and would be rejected outright. Therefore, he'd never tried seeking one out.

But Leliana didn't need to know that.

He sighed, sinking into the uncomfortable chair. Some interrogation this was. All she'd had to do was mention the Hero of Ferelden, and Kin had spilled everything right away. He could never be a spy or an assassin, if this was the best he could offer whenever someone asked uncomfortable questions.

"It wouldn't have mattered what I tried," he said. "I'd still end up here, because thieving is all I know, and ever will know. That's why I came back, you know. To rob the Conclave. No one would have noticed an extra elf servant running about the place, taking everything that wasn't nailed down. I was on my way to Haven when it all blew up—literally."

For once, Cassandra didn't erupt and call him a liar, seemingly waiting for Leliana to decide if he was lying or not.

"What would you have done with it?" Leliana asked.

"With what?"

"The things you stole from the Conclave."

"What does that matter?"

"Humour me," the Orlesian said, crossing her arms, her face deceptively neutral. "Hypothetically, let us say you walked away with a hundred sovereigns' worth of valuables from the Conclave and encountered no trouble selling it off. What would you do with them?"

Kin stared at her. "That is the weirdest question anyone's ever been asked during an interrogation, I'm sure."

"I've been told my methods can be unorthodox," she replied. "Answer the question, please."

Was it a trick? If it was, Kin couldn't tell. What sort of information the spymaster could glean from his answer to that question was beyond him. She probably just wanted some confirmation that he truly was the horrible person she imagined him to be. Joke's on her, that should have been obvious from the moment they'd met ten years ago.

"Fine, what do you want to hear?" he asked. "That I'd take the money and live like a king? Spend it all on whores and booze? Eat, drink, and fuck my way through it until there's nothing left, and I'm reduced to the same destitute wretch I've always been, lying in the gutter?" He laughed. "Or do you want to hear that I'd redistribute the money to the poor, like some gentleman thief?"

Behind him, he heard Cassandra snort with derision. Leliana simply nodded.

"Ideally, the second one," she said. "If you picked the first option...well, it'd confirm some thoughts I have about you...but then, you wouldn't be the only one to choose that path. Money is a strong temptation, after all."

"Well, thank you for the analysis,  _sister_ ," Kin muttered. "And for the record, I'd choose the third option."

"Which is?" Cassandra asked.

"If I ever got my hands on a haul that big, I'd stretch it out for as long as I could," Kin said. "Live simply, but comfortably. Somewhere warm, maybe. Antiva, for example."

"Zevran might object to that," Leliana said, her upper lip curling slightly at the thought of the assassin.

"Zevran can go f—"Kin cut himself off, remembering the Antivan elf. "Actually, he might enjoy that." Leliana's face made a strange expression at that—desperately trying not to smile. Kin considered that a victory. "He'd never know I was there, though. I wouldn't draw attention to myself."

"Easier said than done, in a city full of assassins," Cassandra said. "You'd fit right in."

"Again with that?" Kin asked. The accusations were getting old. "Fine, Rivain, then!"

Leliana held out her hand, and Cassandra stepped closer, handing her Kin's axe. The spymaster studied it, appreciating its weight.

"An interesting weapon," she said in a neutral tone, changing the topic entirely. "Custom?"

"A tool," Kin corrected her. "And yes."

And it really was. Sure, the axe could be used as a weapon, but that was not its primary purpose. Its blade was short and straight, as opposed to the long, curved ones found on battle axes. No, Kin's axe blade was meant putting a lot of force on a small area—perfect for chopping through the wood of chests and doors, and occasionally locks made of softer metals.

The hook on the opposite side served both as counterweight for the blade, improving the axe's overall balance, as well as...well, a hook. Useful for reaching and picking up things that was high up and such. Also good for dragging demons away from Heralds who didn't pay attention to what was happening behind them.

Heh, Khaim had been pretty surprised by that.

The axe handle was about the length Kin's thigh, mostly made of wood save for the last third, which was metal and tapered flat near the end. He'd had the blacksmith add that to serve as a pry bar, in case he needed to force something open. It wasn't quite as a good as dedicated tool, but in most cases, it served quite nicely.

Kin hadn't commissioned it as a weapon. His dagger served that role, on the occasions he found himself unable to escape or talk his way out of a fight. The same dagger Leliana had in her belt, displaying its handle prominently, knowing how much it would piss him off. He wouldn't rise to the bait, however.

"Must have cost you a fortune," the spymaster noted, still studying the axe. "It's perfectly balanced."

"Can't beat the dwarves," Kin offered, trying to sound disinterested. "They know their way around a forge."

"How much?"

"Enough," he said. The cost had been enormous, but he'd just gotten paid for a big haul in Markham, and he'd commissioned the axe in response to the numerous problems he'd faced during the job. Worth it, in his opinion, but had pretty much put him back financially where he'd been  _before_  taking the job, so...

"I want a number, Grimalkin."

"Why? You want to order some yourself? That's going to be difficult, since the blacksmith who made it is dead."

"By your hands?" Cassandra said.

"No, a drunk human decided to smash his head open on his own anvil when he demanded payment for a job."

Leliana turned the axe over in her hands a few more times before handing it back to Cassandra. She then drew the dagger—Kin's dagger—from its sheath, thumbing the blade. She hissed, a bead of blood already growing where she'd been nicked.

"And this?" she asked. "You've had this for a long time. I remember you carrying it in Denerim. The handle is simple, but the blade is incredibly sharp—not mere steel, I am guessing."

"It was a gift," he said.

"From who?"

"My sibling."

"Stolen, probably," Cassandra interjected.

"I didn't steal it!" he hissed, glaring at the Seeker. "My sibling gave it to me to keep! It's all I have left of them."

"Them?" Leliana asked.

It was shameful. Kin's sibling, who'd taken care of him in his earliest memories, were always a vague, elf-shaped blob whenever he tried to recall them. Their voice was high, but if they weren't much older than Kin, then that had no bearing on whether they had been Kin's brother or sister.

What he did remember with absolute clarity was the safety he'd felt with them nearby, and the fear wracking him when they'd told him to hide in a barrel, giving him their knife to defend himself with in case he was discovered. They'd promised to return, to come get him once the purge was over, but they never did. Kin never saw their body, but he knew they'd been killed during the purge, body collected and burned on a communal pyre, absolved of whatever perceived crime committed by the elven community that had started the purge in the first place.

He'd been on his own after that. There'd been other children, of course. Gangs that formed, that he occasionally ran with, but it was always temporary.

"Them," he said simply. "I don't remember if they were my sister or my brother. They were killed during a purge."

He refrained from saying 'murdered'. No use throwing even more fuel on this disaster fire of a situation.

I'm sorry, he thought. Wherever you are.

Cassandra frowned. "How old were they?"

"I don't know—a few years older than me, I suppose."

"And how old were  _you_ , at the time?"

"Hard to be sure," he replied. He honestly had no idea. "My best guess is six or seven? Maybe younger?"

"I'm...sorry," the Seeker said, looking supremely uncomfortable. It was almost funny how drastic the change had been. Perhaps she wasn't as cold-hearted as Kin had assumed. Bad at expressing herself, though, which was why he couldn't help himself.

"Why?" he asked. "You didn't know them. Didn't know me."

"No, but that doesn't mean I don't...that I cannot..." She made several aborted attempts at explaining her sympathies. It was awkward. It made Kin feel a little sorry for her. Not entirely, though. She  _had_  accused him of being an assassin and threatening to cut his head off, after all.

"I know what you meant, Seeker," he said, inclining his head a little. "Thank you."

"We are getting off-topic, here," Leliana said, breaking into the extremely uncomfortable moment. "Grimalkin—that is a codename. It's the name you gave us in Denerim. What is your real one?"

"As I told the Herald: none of your business."

"I rather feel it is," she countered. "But I suppose we can leave that aside for now. Instead, how about you tell me what happened?"

"What? Just now?"

"No, everything since we left you in Denerim. Ever since you left Ferelden. I want to know everything you've been doing from the day we parted until this very moment. Spare no details."

"That's a long story, Nightingale," Kin warned her.

"We have time," Leliana replied, still playing with the dagger, testing its weight and balance, evidently finding it pleasing. "Go on."

He sighed. "Fine."

* * *

Khaim made haste towards the chantry in a manner he  _hoped_  was somewhat dignified, but most likely failing miserably. His legs were wobbly, and felt too long, his head swimming a little. The only thing that kept him from actually tripping and falling flat on his face was his staff. Damn Varric and his silver tongue, he'd taken far too much satisfaction in convincing Khaim to keep drinking. Still did, too, judging by the amused chuckles he heard behind him.

"Take it easy, Greenie," Varric called after him. "You're gonna slip and break something!"

"I have to check on him!" Khaim insisted, frowning when his tongue felt like it was twice its normal size. Damn Varric! "What if they're hurting him?!"

Varric sighed. "Kid, you know Seeker and Nightingale aren't that sort of people; they're just asking him questions!"

Probably, but Khaim had his doubts about Leliana's methods...or what methods she'd employ if Kin proved stubborn and refused to cooperate. And Varric hadn't been the one who'd had to talk Leliana down from having an agent that was suspected of treason executed. She had not been happy with him that day, but at least she'd relented...or so Khaim hoped.

"I promised him he wouldn't be hurt or jailed," he called back to Varric, ignoring the strange looks he got from passers-by, or the odd worshipper who fell to their knees at the sight of him. How he hoped they would stop doing that! It made him feel so hypocritical! "He'll never forgive me if that happens!"

"Greenie, I've been on the receiving end of Cassandra's interrogations—at worst she'll shout in his face for a bit!" Varric was panting a little, Khaim's longer legs giving him a significant advantage. "And why's Stabby's approval so important to you, anyway?!"

Khaim huffed, refusing to answer. Mostly because he didn't  _have_  an answer. By all rights he should have sent Kin running and never looked back, but there was something about the other elf that was...intriguing, in a way. Maybe because he was a city elf—Khaim hadn't met many of them before becoming the Herald. Kin was different, though, somehow. It was hard to put his finger on, but Khaim wanted to get to know him better. But that wouldn't happen if Leliana deemed him an assassin and had him executed or imprisoned, or if Kin was released and he decided to leave without as much as a goodbye.

And...well, Kin was cute. A little. Especially when he was annoyed—his brow furrowed and his small nose wrinkled in a way that reminded Khaim of a...well, a cat.

Khaim growled quietly to himself. Mythal, what was wrong with him? The ale must have been even stronger than he'd thought!

"No reason!" he eventually settled on, practically flying up the stairs and shoving the Chantry doors open with his shoulder.

"Maker's breath, not again," he heard Varric's moan quietly behind him.

Exactly what he meant by that, Khaim didn't know, but he didn't have the time to worry, storming into the main hall of the Chantry and immediately approaching Josephine, who had her handheld lectern at the ready, speaking to one of the soldiers. Upon spotting Khaim bearing down on her, she handed the lectern to the soldier, giving Khaim her full attention.

"Lady Montilyet!" he greeted her unnecessarily loud, even making himself jump at the way his voice echoed throughout the hall.

"Herald," she replied with a small, elegant curtsy, her volume actually controlled. "What can I do for you?"

"The interrogation," he said. "Do you know where they are..." his brain froze for a moment, desperately searching for the right word, "...conducting it?"

"Interrogation?" the diplomat said, raising a perfectly curved eyebrow.

"The...assassin," Varric said, panting as he caught up to Khaim. "Seeker and Nightingale...wanted to have a talk..."

"Oh, you mean the thief?" Josephine said, pointing to one of the doors that lined the Chantry hall, guarded by two Inquisition soldiers. "They're in there."

"Oh, thank you, I—"Khaim paused. "You don't think he's an assassin?"

Josephine smiled, shaking her head. "Him? Hardly." She twirled her fountain pen between her fingers with far more dexterity than Khaim had expected from a diplomat.

"What makes you say that?" Varric asked.

"It is hard to explain, but I am usually quite good at spotting killers," she explained. "I find that their eyes usually give them away. There's a coldness there, a certain...detachment. They look at you, and instead of seeing a person, they see a potential target. They analyse you, trying to find weaknesses, vulnerability." Her eyes looked Khaim up and down, and suddenly, through the haze of alcohol, he felt a shiver run down his spine. "They try to deduce the fastest way to kill you."

Khaim stared at her, eyes wide.

Varric cleared his throat. "Sounds like you have some...erm, insight in that area, Ruffles."

"There is much to be learned, as a diplomat," she said cryptically, nodding to the door. "Go on ahead, I'm sure they'll be finished soon anyway. Seeing as Leliana hasn't killed him yet, I'm sure he'll be cleared."

"Th-Thank you, Lady Montilyet," Khaim said, unable to shake the image of Josephine taking her fountain pen and shoving it into his eye. He suddenly understood why she and Leliana got along so well.

"Now  _there's_  an assassin," Varric whispered as they headed for the door. "I wouldn't get on her bad side, Greenie."

"I'll keep that in mind," Khaim replied, still shivering.

The guards fell reverently to their knees at his approach, but Khaim quickly ushered them back on their feet.

"Please, none of that, especially not when you're on duty," he pleaded with them, though they stubbornly kept averting their gazes out of reverence. "Could you open the door, please?"

"You say 'please' a lot for someone chosen by Andraste," Varric pointed out as the dwarf soldier unlocked the door. "I was expecting a lot more, you know, 'Bow before me, you shits!' and the like."

"I don't really have it in me," Khaim said. Never mind the fact that he didn't even believe in the Maker or any of his supposed brides or whatever they were called, or the supposed divinity of the Mark on Khaim's left hand.

The Mark was just some magical phenomenon no one had encountered yet, in need of deep, thorough analysis. He was sure new magic was discovered every day, all over Thedas. They just had to keep analysing the Mark until they cracked the secret of it. Solas was definitely working on that; he always had a number of questions for Khaim whenever they spoke. If they could convince more mages to join the Inquisition, Khaim was sure they'd learn everything about it sooner or later.

"Just as well," Varric said, patting his arm. "History's filled with tyrants who took advantage of positions like yours. Maybe this all  _won't_  in complete calamity if you stay the way you are."

"Not drunk, I hope," Khaim whispered, making the dwarf snort.

The door finally opened, and Khaim wasted no time marching inside, almost surprised to see Kin sitting in a wooden chair in the middle of the room, seemingly unharmed. Leliana was standing in front of him, arms crossed and glaring at the supposed assassin.

Cassandra, however, was glaring at Khaim. Evidently, he didn't whisper quietly enough.

At least she waited until the door closed behind him and Varric before exclaiming, "Are you drunk?!"

"A bit?" Khaim said, trying to give her a disarming smile—the same he'd used on the Keeper whenever he'd raised her ire with his antics as a child. It didn't work on her either.

Kin had turned around in his chair, giving Khaim an amused look, a crooked grin on his lips. It made Khaim churn a little in a way he couldn't decide whether was good or bad.

"Of all the irresponsible..." the Seeker couldn't find the words, so she settled for a disgusted sigh, shifting her attention to Varric. "And you encouraged this, I assume?"

"Kid was jittery after the trip, I figured he needed a little help calming down," Varric said, raising his hands defensively. "We only had a couple of ales, and I didn't exactly have to pour 'em down his throat by force. How was I supposed to know he's a lightweight?"

"Have you  _looked_  at him?!" Cassandra asked, gesturing to Khaim. "I'm surprised he's even standing, much less speaking coherently!"

"Now that's just hurtful," Khaim said, bristling a little. Sure, compared to humans or dwarves he probably didn't have the most impressive tolerance out there, but that didn't mean he couldn't hold his own! "I'll have you know I once drank Keeper Istimaethoriel under the table!"

As one, the other occupants of the room took a look at Khaim and deemed that piece of trivia unimpressive. Presumably, they thought him a liar...or they pictured the Keeper as some diminutive, elderly elf with no tolerance whatsoever.

They couldn't be more wrong. If the Keeper were here, she'd whip this place into shape, seal the Breach and bring peace to Thedas in a matter of days.

...well, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but that was really how Khaim how had seen his teacher and mentor when he was younger.

...she'd still wipe the floor with Cassandra and laugh while doing so.

"Maybe you'd like to sit down, Khaim?" Kin said, rising from his seat.

Khaim half-expected Leliana to explode into motion and force Kin back down, but she only watched the thief carefully, her face a stony mask of contemplation. Cassandra let her hand rest on the pommel of her sword, but at least she didn't draw it, so...that was progress?

Wait, had Kin called Khaim by his name, and not Herald?

"You  _are_  looking a little green, Greenie," Varric said.

"Enough with the green jokes," Khaim said with a groan, focusing on Leliana. "So? Are we done interrogating him now?"

"Almost," Leliana said, looking to Kin. "What do you say?" she asked.

Kin grimaced. "No, thank you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," he repeated. "I'm not joining the Inquisition. I want nothing to do with this."

"A pity," Leliana said, sheathing the dagger she'd been holding and handing it to Kin after untying it from her belt. "I think you could have done a lot of good here."

"It would've been a disaster, I assure you," Kin said, inspecting the weapon before tying it to his belt, wordlessly holding his hand out to Cassandra, who reluctantly handed him his axe after a pointed glance from Leliana. "You seem to be doing plenty of good already without me."

"You asked him to join us?" Khaim asked, to which Leliana nodded.

"He has shown himself to possess a skillset I could find a use for," the spymaster said. "Infiltration, to be specific."

"I don't think sneaking into a field camp is very impressive," Kin said, shaking his head. "Especially not with guards like that. One of them passed my tracks in the snow  _twice_ and didn't notice them."

"That's the other field in which I could put you to use," Leliana said. "Probing our security. Finding weaknesses and areas that need to be improved. Showing our troops what to look for when on watch, that sort of thing. You would not even have to leave Haven for that."

"That would imply that I actually wanted to stay here," Kin scoffed. "Freezing my arse off teaching recruits how to tell if a print in the snow is from a boot or an animal foot, all the while dodging demon-spewing portals randomly opening all over the place. No, thank you."

It must have been some interrogation, Khaim surmised, if Leliana had gone from suspecting Kin of being an assassin to offering him a place in the Inquisition. He doubted Kin possessed enough of a silver tongue to fool the spymaster, so his answers must have been truthful enough for her to trust him...or at least want to put him somewhere she could keep an eye on him while he did something useful. And Khaim wasn't opposed to that.

"The Rifts will keep opening all over Thedas unless we contain the Breach," Cassandra said, frowning. "Leliana is not asking you to fight demons—she is asking you to help our soldiers keep our camps safe. Surely even you can see the benefit of that?"

"I got lucky  _once_ , sneaking into your camp, and suddenly I'm an expert on infiltrating the Inquisition?" Kin said, doing an odd sort of shuffle towards the door. Just as slowly, Khaim positioned himself in the way, denying Kin a quick exit. " _Surely_  this is something an actual spy or the spymaster herself should be able to do without me? As for the rifts...well, I've been dodging them successfully so far—the one Khaim closed the other day was the first one I've had to get that close to."

There it was again. Khaim. Not the Herald. Not the mage. Not the Dalish. Just Khaim.

It was...nice, being referred to like that.

"I'm just a thief," Kin continued, eyebrow quirked when he found Khaim standing in his way...and refusing to move. "I'm really not useful to you—or anyone—in any capacity. I'm sorry."

His apology was specifically directed at Khaim, who found himself standing aside, disappointment welling up in him. He'd wanted Kin to remain with the Inquisition, but if he didn't want to, then he couldn't force him.  _Wouldn't_  force him.

"Is that what you would say to Nessa?" Leliana asked before Khaim could reach the door. "'I'm sorry'? Do you think that's what she told her fellow Grey Warden after Ostagar?"

Nessa? As in  _that_  Nessa?

Khaim saw Kin's shoulders stiffen. "Don't," the thief, not turning around.

"You threw away the chance she gave you," Leliana continued mercilessly. "I am offering you this for  _her_. For whatever reason, she wanted you to succeed, to have a better life than living hand to mouth, stealing whatever you can just to survive. With the Inquisition, you can be  _useful_ , and not a detriment to everyone around you. Will you spit on her memory not once, but  _twice_  by rejecting my offer?"

"I'm not spitting on  _anything_ ," Kin hissed, his hazel eyes darkening considerably as he turned to glare at her. "I tried to follow her wishes, but I failed. As far as I'm concerned, that frees me from the obligation."

Khaim had seen Leliana annoyed before. Frustrated, even, especially right after he'd woken up in chains and getting accused of causing the Conclave explosion.

He had never, however, seen her  _angry_. It was...surprisingly tranquil. There was no explosive fury like Cassandra's battle fever. No raised voice, no physical violence. There was only the icy stare, and perfectly still face, almost like a mask. When she spoke, her voice was even, with only a hint of wobbling revealing the inner struggle to keep herself still.

"Then you truly are worthless," she said. "Fine, leave. Run away to the Free Marches and hide."

"That's all I wanted in the first place," Kin growled. "Could've spared us this whole song and dance!" He yanked the door open and stomped out.

Khaim really should have left it that. He had no idea what he was doing, running after the thief, ignoring the calls from the others to come back.

The other elf was surprisingly fast, already halfway to the Chantry doors by the time Khaim caught up to him.

That is, caught up to him, and then tripped over his own feet, his face on a trajectory to have a very unpleasant meeting with the stone floor. Luckily, Kin was just as quick to notice that as he was to run away, spinning around to catch Khaim just in time, steadying him.

"You okay?" Kin asked, looking him over. This close, Khaim realised Kin was just a little taller than him...which was really unfair. He'd always been shorter than the clan members, and it didn't seem like the trend was ending anytime soon with the Inquisition.

"Y-Yeah," Khaim said, trying to step back, but his head began spinning a little.

Damn Varric!

"Easy," Kin said, laughing a little. "You really are a lightweight, huh?"

"I'm  _not_  a lightweight," Khaim protested.

"That flush says otherwise," Kin pointed out. Khaim felt the heat on his cheeks, scowling. He made sure Khaim was steady on his feet again and stepped back. "Sorry for the trouble," he said. "I wish you the best of luck in closing the Breach. I'll be rooting for you."

He made to turn and leave again, but Khaim's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Wait," the Herald said. "You can't leave."

Kin chuckled. "Pretty sure your spymaster will have me killed if I  _don't_ ," he said.

"I won't allow it!"

"What, my leaving or her killing me?"

"Both!"

The other elf stared at Khaim for a long moment, blinking slowly. "I'm not a part of the Inquisition. Pretty sure I can leave whether you allow it or not."

"I'm the Herald of Andraste," Khaim said, desperation welling up in his chest. "All I have to do is tell my followers to detain you, and they will."

"That would be...unpleasant," the thief said, patting the axe hanging at his hip. "I've been a prisoner once, you know. I refuse to be one ever again. If someone tries to stop me, I might just decide to fight my way out...or die trying."

Khaim swallowed, seeing no hint of a lie in Kin's eyes.

"But then," Kin continued, "I don't think you would resort to something like that. You don't seem the type."

"I'm not," Khaim insisted.

"But for you to try a tactic like threatening with it," Kin said, "makes me wonder why you're so desperate to have me stay." He leaned forward. "So, Khaim? Why do you want me to stay?"

Why  _did_  Khaim want him to stay? 'I'm curious about you' just wouldn't do for an excuse, at least not if he wanted Kin to  _not_  think him crazy. This really wasn't the time for his mind to be swimming as much as it did, either. It made thinking unnecessarily hard.

"It's getting late," his mouth said without much input from his mind. "You'll freeze to death out there, if you try going now. At least wait until morning. We can get you supplied and outfitted for the journey then."

Surprisingly coherent, Khaim was almost impressed with himself, especially when Kin actually considered it, eventually nodding.

"If you can keep Leliana from flaying me alive before morning, then I accept," Kin said. "I really wasn't looking forward to stumbling my way down the mountain the dark."

Khaim felt like his smile would split his face in half, and was slightly concerned about the way his heart gave a little jump at Kin's acceptance.

He hadn't felt anything like that since...since...

Oh no.

* * *

Kin knew was in trouble the moment the Herald—Khaim—smiled as widely as he did, and all because Kin had accepted his offer of hospitality. Sure, the Herald was a little drunk and the offer had probably been made by accident, but Kin appreciated it all the same.

But that smile...

His heart jumped, and his stomach lurched.

Oh, shit...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Happy new year, everybody!**

**Author's Note:**

> **Decided to adapt this from the Reader-perspective story "Don't Steal From the Inquisition", because I liked the thief character I made up, but wasn't overly fond of the Reader format.**
> 
> **Let's see how this goes, shall we?**


End file.
